Narrow Odds
by SirAlahn
Summary: He knows he is not good at providing solace. The world has revealed too much of its cruelty to him for the pretty lies to roll off his tongue. Running his fingers through her drying hair, he holds her close and tries anyway. [ Takes place after the District 12 Reaping for the Third Quarter Quell in Catching Fire. ] Haymitch x Effie


When he finds her in her room, she has collapsed at her vanity in tears, the sobs rippling across her shoulders. She seems startlingly small without the ostentation of her usual clothes, reduced to something tiny and vulnerable in her nightgown. Freshly showered, she has not bothered to reapply her makeup. Normally she would send him away with that pert little pout on her lips, cheeks slightly flushed and annoyed that he had seen her deconstructed. But this time she does not squeal in surprise when he frisks the lock on the door, does not snatch at her robe nor dart behind the frosted glass screen that encircles her expansive closet. Instead she remains where she is sitting, as though she has not heard him enter from the hallway. Distantly, the predictable percussion of the train's wheels punctuates her weeping.

Wordlessly, he snags the ottoman from a nearby wingbacked chair with his foot, dragging it across the carpeted floor to rest at her side. He sets his squat, cut crystal glass on her vanity, for the moment ignoring the ice that continues to melt into his whiskey. "Hey," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her. Effie seems even smaller in them than she did from across the room, and she turns her head into his shoulder. "It's not your fault. There's nothing you could have done."

"I know that." The words slip out between her tears—an attempt at a reprimand that they both know isn't in earnest. A heavy sigh, half sob, rips itself out of her lungs. "Tell me they're going to be okay, Haymitch."

That request sinks sharply into his chest, as keen as the knife hidden in the inside pocket of his coat. On any other day that sentence would be enough to stir his anger. On any other day he would shout at her, would storm back out of the room and slam the door for good measure. But this time, he's aware she already knows how foolish it is to ask that. Especially of him.

"You know I can't do that, sweetheart."

Effie doesn't answer this time, but her fingers do slide under his jacket to press against his chest. Her crying and damp hair have created a patch of wetness on his shoulder, clammy and uncomfortable. It does not seem likely that she is going to stop any time soon. Honestly, he cannot blame her; Peeta and Katniss had survived their Game—should have been allowed to live the rest of their lives in peace. But he cannot cry for them as Effie can. Not since that hollow place was first scraped out inside of him by grief. He has been trying to fill it with alcohol since then, but it has remained empty.

When Effie proves limp and yielding in his arms, he carries her to bed. The comforter and decorative pillows are as ostentatious as her clothes, and he peels them back to expose the soft sheets underneath, dumping the first layer of comforter onto the floor and flicking the scratchy, glittery pillows off with his hands. Haymitch only pauses long enough to kick off his shoes before joining her on the mattress. Nestled under the blankets, she presses herself to his chest again.

He knows he is not good at providing solace. The world has revealed too much of its cruelty to him for the pretty lies to roll off his tongue. Running his fingers through her drying hair, he holds her close and tries anyway. "The other victors will raise hell. They might provide enough pressure in the Capitol to stop this farce."

"I hope so," Effie whispers in return, and he feels more than hears her whimper. "Haymitch, I feel so guilty."

A year ago, he wouldn't have thought she knew the emotion at all. But he does not say that. "I already told you it's not your fault. You didn't do this to Peeta or Katniss."

Her next breath catches in her throat like her lungs have stopped working. "That's not what I mean. I feel guilty because…" This is the first time he has ever heard Effie at a loss for words. Even now it doesn't last long. "Because I'm glad Peeta volunteered for you. I drew your name out of that stupid, stupid bowl and I..."

Some instinct tells him to remain silent. To let her finish.

"I thought my world was going to end," she finishes meekly. "I couldn't bear to have to say goodbye to you and send you into that Arena to die, Haymitch. I love you."

This is the first time either of them have dared to say it, no matter the heated nights they've hidden between their sheets. And it surprises him so much that he can't even jokingly be angry she thinks he would die. Everyone dies. There is no reason the odds would be in his favor. But now is not the time to think of that. Because this strange, strange woman, who stands almost as diametrically opposed to him as anyone could ever be, has told him that she loves him. And he loves her too.

So he tells her so. And her fingers tangle in his hair, for once unconcerned that he probably needs a shower, and as he kisses her they both sink beneath the cruel reality that threatens to drown them both. For once, Haymitch is glad to be sober enough that he will remember this moment.


End file.
